


And Chase the Ride

by kres



Series: Find the River [2]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Aliens, M/M, death of young aliens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-08
Updated: 2005-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-20 16:13:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kres/pseuds/kres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>run through my head and fall away</p><p>[originally posted at kres.livejournal.com]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part two of a story that should not really have a part two. But I wrote it anyway. And looks like I will write a part three as well. Triptych is such a nice word :)=
> 
> Thanks, ribbons, bows and altars with cherry on top to [](http://paian.livejournal.com/profile)[**paian**](http://paian.livejournal.com/) , [](http://tafkarfanfic.livejournal.com/profile)[**tafkarfanfic**](http://tafkarfanfic.livejournal.com/) and [](http://troyswann.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://troyswann.livejournal.com/)**troyswann** for patience, encouragement and amazing insight.
> 
> Characters belong to the creators of Stargate. Chapter quotes belong to REM.

_run through my head and fall away_

 

He is sitting by the bed, holding the dead girl's hand.

Except that she isn't exactly a girl, never has been, never will be, and now she – it – is dead. Pale blue hand, wet and sticky, and he touches the tips of the cold fingers with his own, smearing the blue liquid between his fingertips.

She – yes, _she_ , he decides – should be covered with a white sheet. That's how it's supposed to be. She should be covered head to toe, but instead her eyes are still on him as he sits motionless, following him when he gets up, accusing him when he sits back down and takes her hand back in his.

She was close. Very close. She could make a glass out of light, and then smash it into a dozen pieces, each one reflecting the empty walls of the lab. And then she would make light of it again, and the light would disappear, seep into the white ceiling.

She was so close.

Too close.

He wonders if he killed her on purpose.

~

A to B, B to C. The easiest route possible, the beauty of simple logic.

He's found he's not the one to jump directly from A to C. He thinks he probably admires that in others, while he's content with the abilities he has. He knows he likes to dig his way through, steadily but surely unearthing the truth, labelling the facts.

But he's also found he hates being stuck in B and not knowing why.

~

“Daa,” she said, when she first opened her mouth.

He nodded, and smiled, and kept smiling. Inside his chest, there was warmth blooming.

“Yes,” he said. “Daniel.” He took her hand, helped her curl one soft, tiny finger, and pointed it at himself. “Daniel,” he repeated, and then slowly turned her wrist, made her touch her own chest. Raised his eyebrows in a question.

She grimaced, and he immediately recognized an attempt at a smile. The warmth in him bloomed even stronger; she was only a day old, and already trying to be human as much as she could.

“Daniel,” she said, distinctively. She was still pointing at herself, but he didn't correct her.

That was their first conversation.

~

A to B, B to C. He knows the knowledge is there, he can feel it, just beneath the surface, but the more he searches, the more it evades him. He dreams strange stories at night, about brightness and cold emptiness and pain. There are images in these dreams he cannot quite place, and faces he hasn't seen before and yet seem familiar. Still he doesn't want to dig deep – he's found he's afraid of what the images would mean if he recognized them.

But somehow it feels like he's losing.

And he's found he hates losing, even if it is to himself.

~

She was shaking her head. “Nooo...”

“Yes,” he said, patient as always, as patient as she was stubborn. “You can do it. Concentrate, try to find it inside you, and you _will_ do it. Come on.”

He was doing his best. But it was going too slow, and he found that it was starting to make him frustrated. How could he teach her anything if he had to solve simple problems in communication that should have already been solved? How was he supposed to concentrate on searching for the knowledge, if he was constantly distracted by something she did?

A human-to-alien interface shouldn't be stubborn – it should be responsive. It should pass the information directly from source to destination, with no interference, and as fast as possible, considering the incompatibilities between the two.

In moments like these he suspected they'd taken too much of his personality to make her.

~

The girl's hand is cold now. There is nothing more he can do. He stands, turns away from the bed and looks at the white, empty walls of the lab. He doesn't want to dig deep, but he knows he will have to, or else he'll be stuck in B for the rest of his life.


	2. Chapter 2

_no one left to take the lead_

The thing she misses the most is the sky.

She realizes that the third week, when she finds that she's drawing a landscape instead of the extended wormhole diagram. Seventh chevron is a bird, and she's drawn sunrays over the top of the point of origin. She slowly adds a few clouds, and, after a few moments' hesitation, the line of horizon. She draws hills, to the left, to the right, and then to the left again, and wishes for crayons so she could color them green, blue and gray, a child's interpretation of farther and farther away.

She doesn't get crayons here, though. But she makes good use of the not-pencils.

~

The 'bargaining chip' theory – false.

Shame. It was the colonel's first idea: the three of them as an exchange for whatever their captors wanted from Daniel. First idea, so by the law of a hunch it should at least partially be true.

And she must admit that she actually preferred it to the 'lab rats' theory, which had been her first bet, but which also invoked unpleasant images such as extensive anatomy lessons. They hadn't seen Daniel yet, back then, so she could understand why the colonel would rather go with his hunch than hers.

But as it turned out, it was neither.

Still she isn't sure if she wouldn't have preferred the anatomy lesson. It would have been way faster and way painless than this.

~

“Permission to go too, Sir,” she said when the colonel came back for the first time.

She was still excited at that point. It had been the end of the first week, and there were so many possibilities still to explore, so many things they could do.

But the colonel looked at her, drank some more water, and then lay back on the bed without a word.

She took it – correctly – as a no.

~

She doesn't miss the sky when she's down in the mountain. She thinks it's because she knows it is there all the time, waiting for her to look up; she can take the elevator, and then walk across the wide parking lot to her car, looking at the sky as much as she wants.

But here, she doesn't know if there even _is_ a sky.

~

Daniel once showed her a sunset from the balcony of his apartment in the Springs.

She'd given him a lift home, and he invited her in, gave her a short tour of the bookshelves and then effectively nullified her ability to drive for the next few hours by offering her a drink, which she took without thinking, too immersed in his tale about something or other; she can't remember now.

It had been a strong drink, and when they sat together on the balcony later, she suspected Daniel did it on purpose – the colonel was still in the infirmary, and it looked like he would stay there for several days. At first it crossed her mind to be angry – it wasn't exactly polite of Daniel to treat her like that. But then Daniel looked at her with that soft smile he used to have back then, tucked a strand of hair back behind his ear and raised his glass to her in a silent salute, and she realized that this wasn't something that Daniel had planned. So she didn't get angry – she smiled and saluted him back instead.

And the sunset was beautiful, too.

~

The 'confinement to extract information' theory – false.

She always wakes up to an empty table, a stack of white sheets on one side and a cup with not-pencils on the other. At first she thought they wanted her knowledge; that's why they always took all her notes while she was asleep. So she tried various things – diagrams, equations, even a few completely false theories she used to have back in high school. She thought that maybe if they'd be interested in something specific, they'd leave the notes so she could write a little more; her private means of communication with whoever they were.

But then she spent the whole day playing battleships with Teal'c and the colonel, only to discover the next morning that those notes had been taken as well. After that, she decided she'd just concentrate on wormhole physics, for her own benefit.

She's found that repetition is more like a honing of skill than a wasted effort. This way when she is finally allowed to publish her book, all the illustrations will be perfect.

~

“Sir, I want to help,” she said around the eleventh time the colonel came back. “I want... I _need_ to do something.” She was insistent, even though she knew she would never persuade him.

The colonel grimaced, a brief tightening of muscles, then relaxed, looked down at her. “We've been through this, Carter,” he said, sternly.

He was getting weaker and weaker each time; the bleeding was the latest addition to the headache and nausea. She knew it wouldn't take long now – at the rate his symptoms were progressing, barely a few days left, and then it was all gamble.

“I know, Sir, but with all due respect, there's only so much I can do from here.”

She, on the other hand, was getting angry. She shouldn't, she knew. Weak or no, he was the commander; risk-assessing was what he did all the time.

He sighed, rubbed his face with both hands. “You can _think_ ,” he told her. Then he did something that surprised her: he reached, grasped her arm and squeezed. “And I need you to to think,” he said quietly. “To stay focused. Can you do that?”

Of course I can, she thought. I keep on thinking in vain, while you slowly go crazy, and then you die.

She didn't say that, of course.

But she couldn't leave it like this.

“Yes, Sir,” she said, and went back to her drawings.

~

She finds herself beginning to hate the color white.

Fluffy white towels, soft white carpet against her bare feet. White tiles in the bathroom, white clothes for all of them to wear. White sheets of paper she gets every day, white plastic of the not-pencils she draws with.

Blood looks even redder on white. It stains the white towels, and the colonel's clothes, when he wipes it with the back of his hand, further staining the sleeve. He utters a soft curse when she helps him to bed, and then he closes his eyes and sleeps. The sheet she pulls over him is white, too.

The second week is when she makes a resolution: when they're back home, she's redecorating; heavier colors, more green and yellow and cream. She'll get Teal'c to help her.

And Daniel, maybe, if he's not somewhere else.

~

The 'mind control lab experiment' theory – still valid.

It's all their efforts to make Daniel remember that made her come up with the idea. But not a regular mind control theory, no. That would be simple. The thing is, every single mind map she's drawn leads her to one thing: if their captors want something from Daniel, and if they need an artificial environment to coax it from him, why on Earth do they let the colonel go in?

So she's come up with an idea – that's what she does, after all – but she hasn't shared it with the colonel. Not yet.

Empirical proofs are no proofs, in the scientific sense of the word. But she needs one now none the less.

She knows this may be something she won't be able to forgive herself, but she's found it's way better than the alternative.

She has a strong suspicion that crazy ideas usually all feel like this.

~

So by the end of the third week, she looks at a diagram she's turned into a landscape, and she decides the original has been perfect from the start, maybe short a few lines. But it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things; it is human to make mistakes, and there's always an errata for things like this. But not for the bigger ones, no.

The colonel is probably still vomiting in the bathroom, the sounds of it muffled completely by the white, seamless door. Sam looks down at her drawing, and finds herself contemplating the ways of the alien design. Simplicity and functionality – even in a cell such as theirs – seem to be the main theme, whilst mankind, with all its genius, doesn't seem to have achieved even such a simple thing as a soundproof bathroom. She shakes her head at the conclusion. Then she puts the not-pencil down, stands up and starts for the main door of the room.

“Major Carter.”

The voice stops her, makes her turn around. From his corner of the room, Teal'c is watching her with a solemn expression. He hasn't moved from his semi-lotus; the position he assumes when he slips into what passes to him for kel-no-reem these days. He doesn't usually wake up from it that fast, though. That means he must have been watching her for some time now.

Crap.

“Yes, Teal'c?” she asks, trying to give him her most assuring smile.

But Teal'c is not easily fooled. Polite, though, as usual. “Have you not been advised to stay in this room?”

Advised. No, she hasn't been advised. She has been ordered. “No,” she says, slowly, jutting her chin, and decides that yes she _will_ hold Teal'c's unwavering gaze.

Teal'c nods, perfect understanding in that gentle bow of his head. “Do you not think it unwise to leave this room while O'Neill is recovering and unable to express his opinion?”

His _opinion_ , she thinks. “No,” she says, keeping her voice firm, and forces herself not to cast a glance towards the bathroom. She can't hear if the colonel finished. Damn the alien design, anyway.

“I see,” Teal'c says, thoughtfully. He seems to consider for a while, and then he slowly unfolds his legs and stands up to his full height.

“Do you wish me to assist you by relocating myself to a more tactical position?”

It takes Sam a longer moment to comprehend that.

And then she laughs, because for a second there, she can actually imagine Teal'c leaning ever-so-casually against the bathroom door. She banishes the image, and shakes her head.

“No,” she says, and smiles gratefully at Teal'c. Then she adds, because she wants to show that she has no bad intentions, because she cares, because she's afraid, “But I'd appreciate it if you watched over the colonel until I get back.”

And Teal'c nods again, but moves between her and the bathroom door anyway. Sam turns away from him, takes a deep breath and raises her hand to knock.


	3. Chapter 3

_watch the road and memorize  
this life that pass before my eyes_

The musicians down on the square ready their equipment. The speakers are heavy, and the cables are tangled, someone's lost a mike, someone else's mike is not working. At the edge of the platform a man is trying to tune his guitar, unsuccessfully, because another man with a stage monitor is looking for a place to put it. As usual, the preparations are a mess.

Daniel swirls the ice in his glass and smiles down at their efforts. They've done it a dozen times already, he thinks, and yet each time they stumble over the cables, shout at each other and engage in long pointless arguments about where the stage monitors should be placed. It's almost unbelievable how they always make it on time.

But they will, and he knows that. Running back and forth under Daniel's window, they'll place the speakers where they should be, untangle the cables and tune the instruments. A to B, B to C, and soon the music will start. There'll be the last sound-check before the evening, before the audience settles in, and then it will all go as planned. Every time, just in time, when the sun touches the rooftops on the other side of the square.

 _Clink, clink_ , go the ice cubes in Daniel's glass. Round and round, Daniel swirls the whiskey, and thinks about repetition, about cold blue hands and the knowledge just under the surface. He'll have to go to work tomorrow again, have a long conversation without words, and then they'll give him someone else to teach. Probably someone more efficient, someone stronger, someone more tough and intelligent, someone--

_someone like Sam_

_someone who won't die_ , he thinks, but then thinking is tiresome, and then it's the headache again, and damn, he shouldn't have drunk the whiskey, no more work now, let's leave it for the morning.

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes against the setting sun and thinks about music.


	4. Chapter 4

_there is nothing left to throw_

The sky looks almost real from the inside. Wide and blue, tinted with gold and red over the roofs of the houses on the other side of the square. The sun is already low, and Sam has to squint when she looks up from the balcony. The view is beautiful. The world is all the colonel said it would be.

Daniel's apartment is quiet. At first it looks like he hasn't come back yet – from wherever it is he thinks he goes when he's not in here – but after Sam steps in from the balcony, she hears the shower running. Good, she thinks. It wouldn't be safe if she were to wait too long. She looks around, takes in the shapes and the textures. Runs a hand along the back of the couch, touches a chair. There's a layer of dust on the bookshelves; she wipes her hand on her--

Dress. She is wearing a dress. She stops for a moment to look at it: simple, knee-length summer dress with a sunflower pattern. She used to have one just like that, she remembers; it was torn near the seam, on the back... and the tear is there, she can feel it with her fingers. So that's it, she thinks, this is all they can do. She finds the knowledge comforting.

“Hello there.”

She spins around, her heart pounding. She didn't hear the shower stop, she realizes, and now there is... oh God, this is _Daniel_ , right _there_ , breathing and real and alive, with a towel around his hips and his hair dripping, and blinking water out of his eyes, and she remembers she had a list of excuses prepared, things she would say to explain why she was here, in his apartment, because the colonel said Daniel wouldn't recognize them, so she has to introduce herself first, create a proper background to introduce the plan A...

But she thinks _scratch that_ , all she wants to do now is to say his name, and hear him say hers, and hold him so tight she would feel his heartbeat in her own chest.

 _Daniel_ , she says, and finds that she can't move; she is shaking so hard she can barely stand.

Daniel doesn't seem to notice, though. He smiles at her, a little uncertainly, and then comes nearer. He extends his hand. “I'm Daniel,” he says, and she automatically returns the gesture.

Daniel's grip is strong; his fingers are cold, and a little wet. He waits for her to answer, his head tilted, and his eyebrows raised, but she can't say a word. _He didn't hear_ , she thinks, panicking. _So it's true, he can't hear a word I say_. The world is suddenly blurry, and she realizes she's crying.

Daniel waits a little more, and then lets go of her hand. He points to the couch behind her. “Make yourself at home,” he says, still smiling. “Let me get you something to drink.”

~

The wine is chilly and sweet, already making her a little dizzy, and Daniel is pale-eyed and quiet, his smile gentle and frighteningly sane.

He's finally coaxed her name from her, after the second glass, when she got a grip on herself and was able to talk without stuttering. She's not really sure where the tears came from; she thinks it's like with that psychiatrist she once went to: she never thought she would cry, and then she couldn't stop. The psychiatrist listened, and then told her it's all right – she should see what people do in this room, and not only those who are truly crazy – so she eventually calmed herself down.

Daniel is not unlike a psychiatrist for her. He's always known when to listen.

Except now she's not sure if he can even hear her.

“Come with me,” she says, and he nods, and then tells her about a pub or a jazz concert, or a place he's seen by the river.

“You can't stay here,” she says, and he smiles, and pours her more wine.

“There's a way out. I can show you. Take my hand and we're out of here, Daniel,” and he looks out the window, at the darkening sky, and tells her that it will begin in a few hours, and she can stay if she wants; he's got plenty of room.

After the first hour, she realizes she won't talk him into leaving. And colonel has already tried using force – all he got was a reset and three days of silence. She can't risk that. They don't have three more days. She's not even sure they have one.

“Okay,” she says finally, and takes another sip of the wine. “I can stay for the concert.” She looks around, nods towards the kitchen. “Do you have something I can make us for dinner?”

He frowns, the only-Daniel-can-frown-like-that kind of way, and she finds she wants to punch him for it. How can he remember to _act_ like himself and not _be_ himself, too? But she doesn't do anything. She waits for him to finish frowning. He does, and then smiles apologetically at her.

“I think I've forgotten to get groceries today,” he says, and he really looks like he just remembered. “Will you be okay with wine?”

They're really good, she admits to herself, nodding and giving Daniel her glass for a refill.

By the end of the second hour she figures it's time for her to go. The sun has already set, and they've done nothing but sit beside each other for some time now, Daniel half-dozing, and half-listening to the music outside. The colonel said there were concerts every evening, and he always stayed till just after; it was his way of telling the time. Sam figures she would have to leave sooner; she doesn't know how much she could take in the first sitting.

“I have to go now,” she says, putting her glass on the coffee table. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Daniel stir, open his eyes, and turn his head towards her. She makes a move to stand.

“Don't.” A touch on her knee, just below the edge of the dress. His fingers are warm, and his hand is heavy. His thumb moves over her kneecap, rubs her skin in a gentle caress. “Please don't go yet,” he whispers, in a voice suddenly different than before, and it makes her look at him, searching for signs of recognition – the colonel said he had _moments_ , touches of clarity; in fact, her first idea had been to explore them, make him question, make him think outside the box, so to speak--

But then Daniel moves on the couch, leaning closer to her, and suddenly she feels cold panic rush up her spine.

She didn't come here for this, oh God, she didn't come here to give him this. Plan A, oh, sure she had one, and it seemed so easy back there, in that sterile, white room. But when she saw him and started crying it all went to hell, and she decided that she just wanted to talk, gather intel so she could maybe come up with another idea, but _she didn't come here for this_ , because, God, this is _Daniel_ , this was _supposed_ to be Daniel, and now he's so close, and he smells so good, and she thinks that it's a beginning of a headache, she has to leave now, she really has to go, before she does something stupid, something utterly insane--

But Daniel is not coming closer, he is leaning down instead, and curling up on his side, and by the time Sam realizes what is happening, he's already laid his head in her lap and drawn his knees to his chest. He is still holding her knee, though, stroking her skin with his thumb, but there is nothing sexual about it, and Sam feels herself blushing to the roots of her hair.

“Just a little while,” Daniel says softly. “Just stay a little while and listen with me.”

Oh God, she thinks, her throat tightening. But she nods, even though he can't see her face – he's turned to the window – and then she allows herself to touch him. She lifts her hand and starts stroking his hair, because that's all she can think of doing. She is rewarded with a soft sigh. After a while, his thumb stops moving, and she knows he's fallen asleep.

The music floats through the balcony door. Sam listens to it for a while, and then looks around – she has to go now. She really has to go.

There is a pillow in the corner of the couch, a little outside her reach. She leans to the side, very slowly. Daniel's head is heavy on her thighs, and his shoulders rise and fall with a deep, easy breath. Sam catches the edge of the pillow with her nails, and pulls it towards her.

“I killed someone today,” Daniel says then, very quietly, and Sam freezes, her hand halfway up, holding the pillow. She puts it back down and waits, but Daniel doesn't volunteer any more information. He looks like he's fallen asleep again, and for a moment Sam isn't sure if he's spoken at all. But then there's flexing of muscles, and Daniel turns, lies on his back, looking up at her with shadowed eyes, and she thinks _clarity, that's it, that must be it_ , because it seems like he's looking at _her_ for the first time this evening.

“I'm not even sure who she was,” Daniel whispers, and blinks a few times, rapidly. “But she's gone now, and I can't even ask.”

Questions, answers, and whys. _Questions, he doesn't ask questions_ , the colonel's voice echoes in her mind. She has to make him _ask questions_.

Sam swallows, and wills her voice not to quaver when she speaks. “And why would you want to ask her? What would you want to know?”

Daniel looks up at her for a moment, his eyes searching hers. Then he smiles softly and reaches up, touches her face. Sam feels her heart beating fast, her pulse loud in her ears. _Almost there_ , she thinks, _please, let it be there_.

“Sam,” Daniel says, stroking her cheek. His fingertips catch, he slides them down to her mouth and she tastes salt. “Don't cry,” he says, very quietly and very gently, and then lifts himself up and takes her face in his hands. “It's okay. She's gone now, but it was the only way. She doesn't hurt any more.” He presses his forehead to hers. When he speaks, his breath is warm against her skin. “She can't hurt anyone any more.”

And when he kisses her, she knows he can't really be Daniel, but he lets him do it anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

_closer now than light years to go_

The colonel holds her up when she stumbles, and he presses a wet towel to the back of her neck. She knows it's the colonel – she recognizes the calluses, she knows the touch of his hands. She heaves up even though her stomach is empty, and then she lets the colonel help her stand and half-carry her to the bed. She is aching all over, and the world is spinning faster and faster. She feels like she's shaking to pieces.

But she was _right_.

The thought makes her strangely cheerful, despite the grim recognition of what the fact of being _right_ actually means. She thinks it's because, as a scientist, she likes her theories confirmed, no matter how much worse the reality turns out to be because of them in the end.

“Tell me why I shouldn't be pissed at you, Carter,” the colonel says when she finally comes back to her senses. His voice is sharp but his eyes are gentle, and he's sitting by her bed in the white, white room, and holding her hand.

She lifts her arm, swings in an uncontrolled motion, but he understands. He gets her the cup, holds it to her mouth. She drinks down the tasteless water, and then falls back onto the bed.

“I'm sorry, Sir,” she croaks as soon as she finds her voice.

She's not sorry, not really, but it's a polite thing to say. The colonel nods, once, but doesn't answer anything. In his eyes there is hope, and things she knows he won't ask.

There is nothing to tell, she thinks with an odd sort of malice. There would be, but they've pulled me out, and now there's nothing to tell.

She knows she shouldn't be like this. She shouldn't be jealous like this. Not because it's beneath her, not because she has sworn an oath, but because this is _Daniel_ that this is about, and no one in their right mind should be jealous if Daniel gets a little warmth in his life. And after all, she was the one that suggested it to the colonel, she was the one that dug in her backpack for her bottle of sunscreen – they were supposed to be hiking somewhere in mountains, had the mission gone right – she was the one that started this whole 'make Daniel remember' thing. So she shouldn't be jealous like this.

Still, she must force herself not to say anything too malicious.

“You can't go in there, Sir,” she tells him. “Not like before, anyway,” she adds, and knows he will understand. “I think you are only making him worse.”

The colonel looks hurt, that brief wince around his eyes, but he doesn't say anything. Sam props herself on both elbows, a necessary effort, because this is serious, this is real. She must look him straight in the eye for this.

“Sir,” she says slowly, carefully, because still, it's a theory, and empirical proofs are no proofs in the scientific sense of the word. “I think they're letting you in to make Daniel forget.”

~

She let Daniel kiss her, let him touch her, let him hold her close the way he had never before. She was still telling herself she only needed to see if he'd do it, if he wouldn't distinguish between her and the colonel, if it was all the same to him now, but at some point – it was probably when his fingers sneaked to the back of her neck and started caressing, stroking just with that touch of possessiveness that she _loved_ – it was probably then that she realized it wasn't about answering questions any more. It was about Daniel, about Daniel and her, and about losing a chance, because he was dead, he was dead if they didn't get him out of here, and there wasn't time, hurry up, collar, buttons, belt, her hands sliding over his skin, the headache getting worse, she had to close her eyes, steady, steady...

Steady. His hands, holding her wrists, holding them close to his chest. Stopping her.

“Shhh,” he said, “Shh, slow down. It's going to be okay, Sam, just slow down.”

Okay. It's going to be okay. She nodded, her face against the soft skin of his neck. She leaned in closer and found the pulse point; so alive, so not here, and yet so alive. She kissed him there, and Daniel laughed softly and raised his chin, bared his throat for her, welcoming her touch. She leaned in even closer, pressed her face to the warm, living flesh--

And then a well of white light opened under her feet, and she was falling, her hands empty, her mouth touching nothing, and only one thought ringing clearly in her head; not the ultimate truth, but the first step on their way to it, a few less light years to go.

_I was right._

~

“Has the environment Daniel Jackson is being kept in not proved itself to be most genuine for anyone inside it?”

“Yes, it has. But it's not the environment I'm talking about.”

She's explained to them about the dress, about the textures of the furniture, about how they felt exactly how she expected them to feel. Sense memory, like when you know how it feels to touch that leaf, up on the top of the tree, even though you've never touched this particular leaf, and you never will. But you know its softness, the way it would feel against your fingertips, the way it would break and leave traces of juice if you broke it. That's why when you touch something you haven't touched before, and you're met with a different sort of texture than you expected, it feels alien, unnatural. But then you've already touched it, and you know it, and it's not alien or unnatural the next time.

“The environment is pulled from our memory,” she explains. “Mostly from Daniel's memory, I think, since none of us has ever seen that apartment before, or the place outside.”

She's only confirming what they already know – they've run through this, back in the theory-making period of their stay. They even tried to pinpoint the place. Somewhere in Europe, they decided, but that's all they have. The colonel said he'd ask Daniel, and maybe he did, but Daniel probably wouldn't tell him, so the topic never came up again.

“It's the people that are not real enough,” Sam tells them. “It's the people Daniel meets, the people that can offer him nothing more than a greeting, nothing more than what he's already heard.” She looks at the colonel. “So I think they're letting you in to help maintain the illusion, Sir. To keep Daniel feeling everything is okay.”

He raises his eyebrows, grimaces like he's not getting it. “Feeling? Not _thinking_?”

She shakes her head. “No, Sir. I think it's rather on a subconscious level. He can't actually _think_ it's okay, since the setting is obviously not right. But the fact that you are there, and you are yourself, probably makes him _feel_ better. And prevents him from asking himself too many questions.”

To her right, Teal'c leans over her bed, hands her a cup of water. “If that is so, then would it be sufficient for O'Neill to behave oddly in order to set Daniel Jackson free of the hallucination?”

Sam accepts the cup, takes a sip. “Yes, that was my first idea, too, but now I don't think it's that easy.” She can feel the blush tingling the skin of her cheeks. She is consciously not looking at the colonel now. “The thing is, that's what I went there to try. I behaved in an... unusual way, to see if Daniel would feel something's wrong.”

Teal'c raises a questioning eyebrow. To her left, the colonel is silent. Sam takes a short breath.

“He didn't,” she says. “But I don't think he'd had enough time. I was pulled out of there before—” Hesitation again. Damn, she should have rehearsed this. “Before I could see if he'd react.” She glances at the colonel. He is not looking at her, but down at his clasped hands. “And I don't think they will let me in again,” she says carefully, “but they might still let you in, Sir.”

He looks up at her. There's something in his eyes, something she can't identify. It's not anger, not any more, but it's not sadness, either, and Sam is grateful for both.

“So what can we do?” he finally says, quietly, and Sam notices he's let his hands hang loose. No fists, no folding the fingers together, and then she recognizes that shadow in his eyes for what it is.

Resignation.

Not now. God, not now, when there's still something that needs to be done.

“Sir,” she says, watching the colonel closely. “Back there, Daniel said something that made me think. And I believe there is one thing we can do. It's quite risky, but I think it may work.”


	6. Chapter 6

_and chase the ride_

Jack is buying bagels.

Basically, he is just standing by the open window of the shop, looking at the bags, deciding which one to take, but that is enough: Daniel can't take his eyes off him. That strong back and firm shoulders, straight spine and long legs, and the air of superiority around him when he looks down at the bags, and runs his fingers barely above them, not touching the paper – this is Jack, flesh and bone, and he's everything Daniel could dream of.

They are alone in the street. The shops have not yet opened for the day, save for this one bakery, and the low morning sun is bathing the street in a soft, almost white glow. The cobblestones glisten, still wet from the night's rain, and the leaves of the flowers in the flower pots on the balconies move slightly in the light breeze from the sea. All in all, it's a beautiful morning, and Daniel inhales the cool air, and then strolls purposefully across the street towards the bakery.

“I'd take these,” he says, coming close to the window and pointing over Jack's shoulder. “They last longest, even though they're the most delicate ones. I always get them for breakfast,” he adds, then steps back, puts his hands in his pockets and waits.

Jack doesn't turn. He contemplates the bags for a little while, and then chooses one – seemingly at random – and tosses a coin into the money-box on the counter. There is a clanging sound; the box has been empty.

“Do you really,” Jack says, still not turning.

“Yeah,” Daniel tells him. “I do.” He moves his fingers in his pockets and realizes his hands are getting sweaty. He scratches the inside of his palm; it has begun to itch. “I can show you,” he says, quietly, and that finally makes Jack turn.

A to B, B to C, he can see in Jack's face that the math's being done. He stands tall under the watchful gaze, forces himself to calm down. It's not working.

But Jack doesn't seem to mind. He watches Daniel for a moment longer, and then smiles a quick smile, the one he uses when he's not happy at all. He puts his hands in his pockets, gestures briefly up with his head. “Shall we?”

Daniel almost says 'After you', but he catches himself just in time.

~

Once upstairs, he can barely keep his hands from shaking. He drops the keys to the apartment, twice; his fingers draw patterns in the dust as he picks the ring up. Jack is waiting quietly behind him. The smell of fresh bagels in the air makes Daniel's mouth water. He's hungry. He's been hungry for some time now. He doesn't remember if he had breakfast today, or at all.

They enter the apartment, and Daniel shuts the door. Jack walks into the living room, puts the bag with the bagels on the coffee table, and turns expectantly to Daniel.

A to C, the conspiracy of two, how to pass the message on with no medium. Daniel could try to stop thinking if it would help him to make sure no one knows, but all he's left with is the hope that the tangled mess of his thoughts is not that easy to read.

“Breakfast?” he asks, because it's the moment to ask, and points to the kitchen. “I think I had milk somewhere. Let me check. Be right back.”

A to C, the conspiracy of three, how to formulate a plan no one else would understand. Daniel believes Sam would find a way, put it together from the scraps he was able to give her.

There is milk in his fridge. He's bought it yesterday, he's fairly sure of that. A slip, or a purposeful continuity this time? For a second he breaks in cold sweat – what if this is just another experiment, just another plot on their part? Stop thinking about it, _stop_ , he tells himself. He takes the milk out of the fridge, finds two glasses, and carries them and the carton back to the living room.

A to C, the conspiracy of four, how to implement the plan with no knowledge of where and when and how far.

Impossible.

But then, there is Jack.

Jack, smiling, biting into a bagel, raining crumbs everywhere on Daniel's floor.

Daniel steps close, pours a glass of milk, and gives it to Jack. Their fingers touch, and Daniel finds that his hands have finally stopped shaking.

He is ready, but the ball's in Jack's side of the court.

Jack chews a bite of the bagel, then swallows, and drinks half the glass in one shot. But he doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything. He just stands there, steady and calm as a rock, watching Daniel closely over the rim of the glass.

Daniel breathes in, smiles the most innocent smile he can manage. “Fresh air?” he asks, and is amazed that his voice is still strong.

And that's it, he thinks, this is all I can do. Let it spin, and wait for the light.

Jack finishes the rest of his milk, still not moving. Rooted to the spot, Daniel thinks, and then there's another slice of cold, right through his chest: what if this is not Jack, what if they somehow found out, it's not difficult to read him, it's not difficult to tell him to think what they want, and he thinks music, _music_ , and he thinks _stay focused, stay clear_ , and he thinks, _this is Jack, must be Jack, there is no way in the world they could fake this_!

And then Jack puts the glass down on the coffee table. _Clink_ , it goes, and _rustle-rustle_ , goes the bag, as Jack fishes out another bagel, and turns away from Daniel and towards the balcony.

“Nice view,” he says, opening the door. He glances at Daniel over his shoulder. “But the drafts must be a killer in the winter.”

I wouldn't know, Daniel thinks, but he doesn't say it. _I wouldn't know_ , he tells himself, and then it's exhilarating all of a sudden, the thought that Jack would ask exactly that, and Daniel doesn't need anything else. He follows Jack and they step out onto the balcony together.

They stand in the soft breeze for a while. Jack doesn't eat the bagel. They look at the rooftops, the pale blue cloudless sky. There are pigeons on the church tower, warming feathers in the morning sun. The pubs and restaurants around the square are still closed, and Daniel consciously stops wondering if they've ever been open.

“Nice view,” Jack says again, and Daniel turns to him.

Yes, it is, he thinks, looking at Jack's face. Jack isn't looking at the landscape any more, either.

A to C, Jack is doing the math. Do they need to hurry, do they need to do something more, are they on the right track? Daniel tries not to think any more. He lets his thoughts drift, _orange sunrise far across the desert, the wind blowing pieces of trash, foil bags catching on every bush, every stone, every inch of the barbed wire fence_. He closes his eyes, smiles into the orange glow, lets Jack handle the rest.

Impossible. But then there is Jack.

“Thank you,” Daniel says, in the last moment, when it's finally safe.

Jack's palm against his chest is gentle, just before the world sways and tilts, and then it's three stories down and Daniel doesn't have to do anything else.


End file.
